Silence Falls When Darkness Dies
by Polytheist
Summary: Destroyed by the Dragonborn, the Dark Brotherhood lies in ashes; but no matter how bright you shine a light, darkness always remains.
1. With Enemies Like These

**Silence Falls When Darkness Dies**

_Polytheist_

Disclaimer: all copyrighted material belongs to their respective owners

_Sweet Mother, Sweet Mother send your child unto me,  
For the sins of the unworthy must be baptised in blood and fear._

**With Enemies Like These**

Windhelm held a rather stubborn reputation of being one of the coldest cities in Skyrim.

Standing proud on the northern bank of the White River it was in the perfect spot to receive the blessing of the harsh winds that carried the biting chill from the Sea of Ghosts. The results were nigh permanent hoarfrost on the streets and alarming occurrences of blizzards that battered the ancient walls, leaving deposits of snow that climbed up the corners of alleyways and buildings.

Candlehearth Hall stood like a beacon within the icy city; its radiance of warmth drawing in weary travellers like a wisp, albeit to a more benevolent embrace.

Elda Early-Dawn bustled behind the bar, busily clearing away the detritus from the day's business while Rolff Stone-Fist lounged nearby.

"I'm telling ya Elda," he slurred, "those Gray-Skins are nothing but troublemakers."

Elda nodded; thankful he had already emptied his mug, given its erratic movements when he gestured as he spoke.

"They'll take over the city if we aren't careful."

Rolff stared drunkenly at her, as though her words were some ancient riddle he was struggling to decipher. Moments later he smiled and nodded when her agreement penetrated his mead fuelled mind.

"Ya right, by Talos, ya right!" He thundered, "I should go and let those Gray-Skins know what I think of them and their stink!"

With a great flourish Rolff lifted his mug to his lips, only to stare at it mournfully when he realised it was empty.

"One more for the cold I think," He declared as he fumbled with his coin purse for about ten seconds before somehow managing to throw some coins onto the bar; not seeing that he had thrown double what was needed.

Elda scooped up the coins before handing over a bottle of mead; she gave a wave to Rolff's back as he exited the inn, bellowing the 'Age of Oppression' into the night sky, before securing the coins in her strongbox.

A blast of cold air heralded the arrival of another patron.

Elda turned towards the door and frowned at the newcomer.

He was short and that was really all she could tell given that a black hooded cloak did a pretty good job at masking his identity.

Elda eyed the man wearily as he approached the bar; melting snow dripping from his cloak.

"One room."

Elda's frowned deepened; that wasn't a Nordic accent. Her eyes narrowed as she tried to peer at his face, but the light from the torches behind him made that near impossible.

"Fifty Septims," There was no attempt to hide the coldness in her tone, on the chance he was one of those Dark Elves.

There was no argument at the extortionate fee as he produced a coin purse and handed over the gold.

"First door on the left," she pointed down the hall, "Don't break nothin'."

The man seemed to bow slightly before heading towards his room.

When she heard the door close Elda release the breath she didn't realise she was holding.

* * *

Corbin sighed as he closed the door, muting the steady drumbeats that the Candlehearth's bard thought was music. He hated coming to Windhelm, where everywhere he looked there seemed to be a hateful or mistrustful glare; surely it wasn't healthy for a populace to be so paranoid.

He removed his hood, shaking free his black hair, before unfastening the cloak and hanging it in the provided wardrobe.

Moving over to the bed, he removed the satchel from his shoulder and placed it on top of the sleeping furs. With deft gloved hands he unfastened the buckle and careful removed the plate from its leather folds.

The Aretino Family heirloom was of stellar craftsmanship, worked from the finest silver and proudly bearing a maker's make that should make it worth a considerable price.

As Corbin checked the polished for any scuffs or scratches a distorted image of a Bosmer stared back at him. Straining his eyes to see past his reflection, Corbin's vision suddenly shifted red and, for a moment, he was back in Honorhall; rivulets of crimson sin staining the wooden floor.

Corbin shook his head, throwing the metal plate on the bed.

With a shuddering breath he poured himself some water from a jug laid out on the provided dresser; a large gulp of the cool liquid doing wonders to slow his heart.

Corbin frowned. There was a strange aftertaste to the water.

His eyes widened with realisation as the goblet fell from his lifeless fingers and crashed to the floor; his last conscious thought identifying the taste.

_Nightshade_

* * *

He ran. He ran until his legs burned and his heart felt like it was going to explode. He ran faster than he had ever ran before. But he still wasn't fast enough.

Everywhere the blackened skeletons of the trees scratched at his face and pulled at his clothing.

Everywhere the maniac laughter echoed in the darkness.

The ground before him cracked asunder, causing him to stumbling into the gaping chasm.

How long he fell in that darkness he could not say.

The moment he slammed into the floor a wizened handed burst through the mud, showering him in dirt.

He could not move, only stare in horror as the emaciated body of Grelod the Kind pulled herself free of the earth's embrace.

She stumbled towards him, her arms outstretched. With each step her body decayed before his eyes; her dress rotted and turn into a burial shroud, bound with fraying rope.

The laughter increased.

He stood paralysed as her cold hands gripped his shoulders; tendrils of her shroud wrapping themselves around his limbs.

Her mouth opened and inside was nothing.

Nothing but a void.

_Silence will fall._

And then Corbin jerked awake.

* * *

Astrid smiled beneath her mask as she watched the black haired Wood Elf rouse himself from his poison induced slumber.

This was her favourite part; watching the daze and confusion give way to realisation. It was telling; the first reaction revealed a great deal about the person.

Festus, for example, let off a great torrent of destructive magicka that killed her guests before her planned spiel. The shack, and her armour, still bore the scorch marks.

As she watched the Wood Elf, Corbin if her associates had done their reconnaissance correctly, attempt to shake off the effects of the tonic she idly wondered if she should have Babette dilute the mixture.

_But then, _she thought as his bleary eyes attempted to focus on her, _where was the fun in that?_

"Well now," She purred, "You're finally awake. Sleep well?"

Corbin blinked several times, running his tongue over his parched lips.

"What?" His voice was thick with drowsiness, "Who?"

"Does it matter?" Astrid tutted, "You're alive, for now. The same cannot be said for old Grelod the Kind now can it?"

The Wood Elf swallowed.

"How?"

"Come now, you didn't expect something like that to stay quiet did you? An event like an old crone getting butchered in her own orphanage tends to get people talking; I suspect half of Skyrim knows by now," Astrid stretched before dropping gracefully to the floor; smirking behind her mask when Corbin took a step backwards, "Oh, but don't misunderstand; I'm not criticizing, it was a good kill. However there is a slight, shall we say, problem."

Silence met those words, yet there was no fear in the Wood Elf's eyes. _Interesting_.

"You see that little Aretino boy was looking for the Dark Brotherhood; for me and my associates. Grelod the Kind was, by all rights, a Dark Brotherhood contract. A kill that you stole; a kill you must repay."

"A life for a life. Who?"

"How eager," Astrid smiled, "Let me introduce you to my guests."

She slipped past Corbin.

By the far wall, bound with their heads covered with burlap, knelt three individuals; a man in scale armour, a woman in a lower class dress and a Khajiit in upper class clothing.

Astrid moved to stand behind the warrior, placing a hand on his shoulder; the man let out a small whimper.

"I've collected them from," she let out a small laugh, "Well that not really important. What matters is that there's a contract out on one of them and that person can't leave this room alive," the man let out another whimper, "Oh, but which one? Go on see if you can figure it out."

Astrid moved back to the other wall, trailing a finger down the man's armour; causing him to visibly shake. With the grace akin to a cat she returned to her position, lounging on top of the shelves.

"Make your choice, make your kill. I just want to observe. And admire. Repayment of your debt is but a knife thrust away."

When Corbin didn't move Astrid let out a quiet chuckle.

"But you don't have a knife do you. It's still lodged in old Grelod's heart."

Astrid removed a dagger from her waist. With a deft flip she presented it, handle first, to Corbin.

"The Blade of Woe has tasted many lives in its life. What is one more?"

* * *

Corbin blinked several times, whatever potion he had ingested was severely blurring his vision; the pounding in his head didn't help matters one bit.

The Blade of Woe felt strange in his hand. He couldn't quite identify the metal it had been forged from, but the wicked blade looked sharper than ebony. He believed the Dark Brotherhood assassin when she claimed it had killed many people; if he concentrated he would swear that he could sense a slight malevolent aura coming off the blade, separate from whatever baleful enchantment it possessed.

Corbin turned to face the assassin's proclaimed 'guests.'

One of them had to die; a life for a life.

But then, why just one?

The assassin wouldn't round them all up just for sport; the Dark Brotherhood didn't kill without a contract. If there was only one and he pick wrong, then the Brotherhood would have forfeited on their agreement.

No, it didn't make sense that only one of them was marked for death. All must die.

Gripping the Blade of Woe Corbin took a step towards the captives, stopping when his head swam. Shaking away the after-effects of the potion he raised the Blade to strike at the Khajiit.

_Fus...__**ro DAH!**_

Corbin turned towards the door, only to be thrown back in a shower of splinters as the door was shattered open.

He crashed through the bed, his head rebounded of the wooden barrels and the Blade of Woe fell from his listless fingers as he landed in a heap among the fragments of wood.

Darkness descended on his sight.

Sounds of combat echoed throughout the shack followed by a body falling heavily on the floor.

"Well it's about damn time," a harsh woman's voice scorned.

"Thank you Dragonborn, I'll never speak of this to anyone, I promise!" a male Nord blubbered.

"Vasha wishes to thank you. Vasha knows of an inn with comfy beds," there was the sound of flesh being struck, "Hehe, feisty, just how Vasha likes them."

"Uthgerd," another Nordic male voice, this one deeper, admonished with a hint of humour, "Try not to rough him up too much."

"I don't know why we bothered Hjalmar. We do not know how long Thorald has."

Corbin couldn't hear the reply as the voices drifted away.

Slowly his strength returned, as did his vision after several blinks.

Grasping the Blade of Woe, Corbin stood shakily to his feet and surveyed the carnage in the shack.

The captives were gone and the Dark Brotherhood assassin lay dead; felled by multiple blows from a large sword and axe, judging by the wounds.

Anger burned in Corbin's heart as his gripped tightened on the Blade.

To be swept aside, not even worth their effort to be killed. The insult!

Hjalmar the Dragonborn; his new target.

He stepped towards the opening that was once the door, stopping as his gaze returned to the fallen assassin.

Revenge could wait for now; he had unfinished business to attend to.

A life for a life.

He had a debt to repay.


	2. Whispers of Death

**Silence Falls When Darkness Dies**

_Polytheist_

Disclaimer: all copyrighted material belongs to their respective owners

_Sweet Mother, Sweet Mother send your child unto me,  
For the sins of the unworthy must be baptised in blood and fear._

**Whispers of Death**

He knew it wasn't worth the risk, especially for something so sentimental, but that did not stop him from returning to Candlehearth Hall.

The atmosphere of the inn was almost unnerving after hours, with the fire doused everything was covered in darkness and the outside chill permeated the air; the sole illumination coming from the eternally lit candle on the mantle.

Carefully Corbin made his way through the silhouettes of the furniture, the creaking of his footsteps masked by the sleeping murmurs of the inn's occupants.

His target was on display on the mantle behind the lit candle; its flame turning the Aretino Heirloom into a gleaming beacon in the darkness.

Carefully Corbin eased the plate off its stand and secured it in his satchel; for a brief moment he stared at the candle, contemplating the impulse to extinguish the undying flame.

Suddenly torch-light blazed through the darkness, a female's voice cutting through the quiet.

"You there!" Elda Early-Dawn cried, "What do you think you are doing?"

In one quick, fluid movement Corbin reached for his belt, withdrew one throwing dagger from the several sheathed, and threw it at the innkeeper; Elda crying out as the dagger pierced her shoulder, causing her to drop her torch to the floor.

Hearing the movement of several occupants being woken by the commotion Corbin bolted from Candlehearth Hall, the intrusion of the cold night air causing the ever burning candle to flicker.

* * *

Although her bones ached Fralia Gray-Mane did not let the weariness of her advanced age keep the small smile from her face. The sun was shining in the cloudless sky over Whiterun and her son Thorald had been freed from those gods forsaken Elves; truly things were looking up for her family.

She did frown, however, when a customer approached her stall; his face was covered by a black hood.

"Isn't it a bit warm for that cloak, dear?" She asked, her eyebrows furrowed.

The man didn't response and began shifting through the various brooches she had on display.

Fralia cleared her throat slightly, "Ah yes, all of those were crafted by the best blacksmith in Skyrim; you won't find any better in all of Tamriel."

The man raised his head and held one brooch up.

It was in the shape of a flower, with six spiky petals arranged in a wheel-like starburst.

"The nightshade one?" Fralia frowned; she did not know what had convinced Eorlund to craft that one, "Are you sure?"

When he nodded she sighed.

"Fifty Septims."

The man dropped a coin purse on the stall.

Fralia's eyes widened when she counted out the hundred coins it contained.

"This is too much," she trailed off when she looked back up.

He was gone, disappearing into the market crowd.

* * *

"What do you think Jen?" Ralis Sedarys asked, "A thing of beauty is it not?"

On the table between the two Dark Elves, proudly displayed in a travel case, was an exquisitely crafted bow of dwarven make; however unlike any of its contemporaries, this one was black in colour.

"Well it's certainly...unique," Jenassa kept her tone flat as she finished of her goblet of Shein, the cornberry wine only mildly bitter to her taste; while she had grown accustomed to Nordic mead, she was grateful that Elrindir had been able to procure a shipment of native beverages from Solstheim.

Ralis also drained his mug, preferring the more potent Sujamma, before turning around to the Drunken Huntsman's proprietor and signalling for two more bottles.

"Don't act all aloof cousin," Ralis paused to pay Elrindir as he placed the bottles on the table before turning back to Jenassa, a small smirk on his face as he refilled his mug, "I know you're jealous."

Jenassa snorted and deliberately ignored his jibe; focusing on refilling her goblet.

"I'm surprised your patron didn't keep it," She commented.

Ralis took a swig of his Sujamma, wiping the excess off his lips with the back of his hand.

"Rowena? Nah," He laughed, gesturing with his mug; surprisingly not spilling any alcohol, "She's got her own Dwemer bow that she calls Zephyr or some such nonsense."

"Nords do seem obsessed with naming their weapons," Jenassa interjected.

"Besides," Ralis carried on, ignoring the comment, "She's gone off to Markarth to deliver some old Dwemer Ballista bolts to an Altmer scholar there. Said she would have him translate some books she'd found in some ruined fort near Riften then check in on her family and title business."

"Family?" Jenassa raised an eyebrow as she sipped her Shein, "Title?"

"Husband, two adopted kids. Thane of Markarth. All terribly boring," Ralis took another gulp of his drink, "Though apparently the Altmer is running some expedition into the Dwemer ruins under Markarth; said she would send a courier after her business was done and the three of us would explore them together."

"Three? I hope you didn't volunteer me for any archaeological nonsense."

"No, no, no," Ralis shook his head while gesturing with his free hand, "With Vorstag or Argis; her husband or his brother, her housecarl; whichever one doesn't want to watch the kids."

"Dwemer bows, Dwemer books, Dwemer ruins," Jenassa sipped her drink, "It seems your patron is obsessed with them."

"She seems nice enough," Ralis shrugged, "Gods, she even got on with Teldryn."

Ralis trailed off, realising what he had said when Jenassa banged her goblet quite forcibly on the table; her fingers almost white around it.

"Jen, I shouldn't..."

"As if I care who that wretched cur of a s'wit consorts with," she all but snarled through gritted teeth.

An awkward silence descended on the two Dark Elves.

Ralis cleared his throat, "So I hear there's some commotion in Windhelm; they say the Butcher is getting bolder."

Thankfully the door of the Drunken Huntsman banged open; a welcome distraction from the stilted conversation.

The new arrival wore a black hood and cloak, fastened with a flower-shaped brooch, which concealed his identity; which was strange considering the warm weather.

He approached Elrindir; although too far away to hear any of the words, it was obvious as to the nature of the exchange when he handed over a coin purse before turning towards the staircase that led to the tavern's rooms.

As he walked by, the man's head turned in the direction of the travel case carrying the black Dwarven bow; it seemed as though his gaze never left it as he passed.

"Did it just get colder in here?" Ralis asked as he downed the remaining half-a-mug of his Sujamma.

* * *

Corbin carefully opened the door to the room; the snores of its occupant covering the sound of its hinges.

Slowly he approached the table, upon which was a traveller's case, and knelt before it. He then withdrew a lockpick from a pouch on his belt and a throwing dagger.

_Only one more left_, he noted, _must remember to acquire some more_.

Using the hilt of the dagger as a tension wrench, he set about picking the case's lock.

Corbin did not know what was in the case or why he seemed drawn to it; it was as though there was something just beyond his senses calling him, like whispers on the wind.

With a sharp click the case's lock snapped open and Corbin eased it open.

A bow, Dwarven make; enchanted, given its shimmer. He reached in and lifted it out.

"Hey, what the," The Dark Elf occupant had awoken and was scrambling to disentangle himself from the bed linen.

Corbin turned, threw the dagger at the Elf, who gasped as it embedded in his shoulder, and ran from the room and down the stairs.

Something, however, caused him to stop in the taproom.

Behind the counter was a glass display case containing a quiver with what looked to be about twenty ebony arrows.

Mindful of the commotion above, Corbin wrapped the hem of his cloak in his fist and slammed it onto the case, causing it to shatter.

The sound brought movement from the room located across the taproom, under the stairs. Corbin pulled the quiver from the case in a shower of glass and bolted from the Drunken Huntsman.

"Stop Thief!" A Wood Elf voice shouted as Corbin slammed the door shut.

After a quick glance revealed no guards in the area, Corbin ran towards the blacksmith, shouldering the quiver as he went, and darted past the barrels and under the awning on the shop's side.

He jumped over a pile of firewood logs, pulled a potion from his satchel and ran straight for the bastion of the city wall.

Behind him the Wood Elf was making quite a lot of noise, shouting for the guards.

With the potion secured against his stomach, Corbin dived over the wall.

The shock of impacting the ground reverberated up his spine and set his teeth rattling.

Pausing only to gulp down the healing potion, Corbin took off in the direction of the stables; leaping over the small stream.

As luck would have it, he noticed the arrival of a travelling nobleman on horseback; only accompanied by one bodyguard.

Not breaking stride, Corbin unsheathed his final throwing dagger and threw it with deadly accuracy into the bodyguards exposed throat.

The nobleman's horse reared up at the sudden appearance; the noble holding on the reins for dear life. Corbin was upon him as the horse's hooves touched the ground.

"What is the meaning of this?" The nobleman cried as Corbin grabbed him.

After a brief struggle the nobleman was thrown to the ground with a loud grunt and Corbin vaulted into the saddle.

He sharply turned the horse around and spurred it down the west road; disappearing into the night.

* * *

He was slightly unnerved at the sensation that seemed to be directing him; that every time he tried to ignore the lure a pressure would begin to build in his mind until he submitted to its unspoken command.

And now the whispers had brought him here; wherever here was.

The horse panted with each step; its breath clouding in the chill.

Corbin felt a twinge of guilt at how hard he had driven the beast over the last few days. It was no destrier or palfrey, and the journey was starting to take its toll.

He had ridden northwest from Whiterun, cutting across the verdant plains until they gave way to the stone of the Reach. The further he travelled the more snow appeared on the ground and the colder the air became.

Now before him was a set of ice covered stairs leading up the hillside.

Corbin slowly spurred the horse onwards.

Suddenly a fireball impacted the ground in front of the horse, which screamed at the explosion and reared back onto its hind legs; earning it an arrow in its chest, which quickly ended its suffering.

Corbin, however, was already moving.

He leapt from the saddle, rolled as he landed, unshouldering his bow as he did so, and settled in a crouch.

He notched an ebony arrow and quickly scanned for targets.

Three figures emerged from the snow flurry, each one garb in animal pelts adorned with various bones, teeth and antlers; each one held a maniacal gleam in their eyes.

_Forsworn_.

The first one felled was the archer, perched on an outcrop, with the arrow piercing his stomach where his armour was lacking.

The second was the shaman as he recovered from his destructive volley; his ward spell offering no defence as the arrow pierced his throat.

The final Forsworn bore down upon with a crude stone-bladed axe in each hand and a savage snarl on his face.

"First you," he growled, all but frothing at the mouth, "Then all the Reach."

Corbin rolled under his wild swing, coming up behind the warrior.

The Forsworn man whirled around, swinging wildly, only to be met with a near point blank shot right through his eye; his weapons falling from listless fingers.

Corbin drew in several breaths of the freezing air to still his pounding heart.

He stared up at the mountainside where the stairs led, compelled to go further on.

* * *

Scratching out an existence in the Vale of Deepwood Redoubt was a harsh experience; for it was set in the right place to feel the caress of the snow blessed mountain winds.

_But then_, Drust mused, _it was a fitting reflection_.

For life of the Forsworn was as harsh as their chosen home. Outcasts in their ancestral home, force to burn their own land; all the while the Nord invaders sat behind their stone wall and grew fat on the backs of Reachmen suffering.

"You are with us, or you are against Skyrim."

That was their motto.

Drust gazed up at the night clad silhouette of the ruin his men, rather darkly, referred to as Hag's End.

It seemed like every week a new witch would journey to the home of the hagraven Esmerelda in the hope of joining her coven. Not all who entered made it as part of the sisterhood; becoming an offering on the altar of the Old Gods.

Drust too had hopes of being invited into that place. He had risen up to lead this band of the Forsworn through his ferocity and fanatical devotion to the cause. And one day he hoped that his great reverence of Esmererlda would result in her inducting him into the ranks of the blessed Briarhearts.

Movement disturbed his fantasies and Drust smiled at the interrupter.

"Genovefa," He greeted the shaman.

While her red hair betrayed her Nordic ancestry, Genovefa was a Forsworn through and through; abandoning her father's kin after watching her mother be defiled in her own home during the invasion of Markarth, for the sole crime of being a Breton.

"Chieftian," she purred, "Cold night."

"Well," Drust leered; she was, after all, quite a looker if a little twisted by her childhood experiences, "I'm sure we can find something to do to ward off the cold."

A heavy thud came from nearby.

"What was that?" Genovefa asked, drawing her sword.

Drust drew his sword as well before moving in the direction of the sound to investigation.

At the foot of the wall one of the sentries; a Forsworn made arrow protruding from his chest.

Drust frowned; their own kin wouldn't attack them which meant...

_Intruders_.

He span around to face Genovefa, a command on the tongue; only for his mouth to snap shut when he saw that her gaze was focused on something behind, and above, him.

A sense of dread filled Drust's stomach as he turned back around.

Something leapt off the wall and descended upon him, like some unholy dark bird.

Drust's last sensations, before darkness took him, were the sharp pain in his neck and Genovefa's screams in his ears.

* * *

Corbin entered the ruin, shutting the metal doors against the icy wind.

Not that it did any good, seeing as the entrance way was covered in a layer of hoarfrost.

Corbin walked down the short corridor and shoved open the heavy wood and iron doors.

And was met with four sets of eyes turning to stare at the interruption of their feast.

Corbin scanned the occupants of the room, dismissed the immediate threat of the black robe women and focused on the hagraven at the head of the table; who was rising from her seat, the blood of whatever she had been feasting on drooling down her chin.

Swiftly he raised his black Dwarven bow and let loose an ebony arrow straight at her heart; the arrow struck the hagraven, causing her to stumble, before disappearing in a swirl of a purple magickal vortex.

The attack on, and subsequent injuring and disappearing of, their matron spurred the three assembled witches into action, as they leapt from their seats; letting loose streams of fire and frost.

Corbin rolled under the magickal assault and loosed one of the scavenged Forsaken arrows at the witch furthest away; though of primitive design, the arrow was adequate enough to rip through her robe and penetrate her chest.

Corbin eyes widened slightly as he hastily dived to the left as a spike of magickal ice shattered against the floor; gritting his teeth as shrapnel of the spear managed to rip through his leather armour, the chill forcing his fingers to drop his bow.

Unsheathing the Blade of Woe, Corbin leapt at the nearest witch; who flinched back a step and raised a ward before her.

The magickal defence designed to shield against magicka derived attacks had no affect on the mundane strike of the Blade. The razor sharp blade slashed across the witch's chest, its malicious enchantment stealing her remaining lifeforce to power its wielder.

The final witch stared with wide eyes at the bodies of her coven sisters, before turning and running out of the room in the direction of the entrance; the sound of the door to the Vale being slammed shut echoing down the corridor.

Corbin let her go, feeling a pressing need to venture on; stopping only to retrieve his bow.

The door ahead led to a flight of stairs leading up.

Avoiding the rather obvious pressure plate trap at the top of the stairs, Corbin followed the short corridor to another wood and iron door.

With his bow ready and arrow notched, he shouldered opened the door.

This room was some sort of throne room, given that the hagraven was sat in an over sized chair with two witches sat facing her.

Whatever discussion they were having was cut short as Corbin's intrusion.

Noticing the odd shimmering reflection of torchlight on the floor, Corbin quickly scanned the ceiling area of room. He spotted the corresponding fire pot that was posed to ignite it in the mouth of some claw-like statue.

A Forsworn arrow hit the pot as the witches rose from their seats.

A small smile appeared on Corbin's face as their robes caught alight and the flames quickly consumed them.

He was startled, however, when a slightly singed hagraven leapt through the flames; yellow teeth fixed in a snarl and long vicious looking talons aimed at his eyes.

The hagraven crashed into Corbin, knocking them to the floor; the black Dwarven bow was all that guarded his face, intercepting her reaching claws.

Fighting back a grimace as her rancid saliva dripped near his mouth, Corbin shook violently in an attempt to dislodge the enraged bird-woman.

After several near misses with the talons, Corbin finally found the correct leverage required to haul the foul smelling creature off of him; using the momentum to discard his bow and unsheathe the Blade of Woe.

Weaving in and out of her reach, Corbin slashed at the hagraven's feathers; drawing strength from the enchantment.

His almost playful strikes seemed to enrage the hagraven as she snarled before lunging again; no doubt in another attempt to pin him down.

This time however Corbin was ready. He fell backwards with her lunge and brought the Blade up again her chin.

Her momentum and weight allowed the Blade to pierce her flesh and up into her brain; her body disappearing in another purple vortex.

Corbin remained on the floor for several moments, catching his breath, before rising to his feet.

The whispers urged him on.

He moved to the wall behind the throne.

At about the height of his left shoulder was a hidden switch; if he hadn't been looking for a reason for the lure Corbin might have missed it. He pulled on the handle, causing a section of the wall to recede into the floor.

There he saw the reason why he was here.

Behind the wall was a corpse bearing armour similar to that of the Dark Brotherhood assassin in the shack; black leather accented with blood red patches.

However this one looked to be his size.

With little regard to the corpse, after all the dead can't feel, Corbin removed the armour and quickly replaced his own with it; sighing as he felt the ancient enchantment on the leather flare into life.

He put back on his belt and satchel, then threw his cloak back over his shoulder; fastening it with the nightshade brooch over his breastbone.

Corbin picked up his black Dwarven bow and sheathed the Blade of Woe.

The whispers now spoke of a new purpose.

Now was the time to finish his hunt.


	3. The Knife in the Darkness

**Silence Falls When Darkness Dies**

_Polytheist_

Disclaimer: all copyrighted material belongs to their respective owners

_Sweet Mother, Sweet Mother send your child unto me,  
For the sins of the unworthy must be baptised in blood and fear._

**The Knife in the Darkness**

As Hold capitals went, Riften was considered by many to not be a very nice place to live. It certainly couldn't hold a candle to the majesty of Solitude or the history of Windhelm; the mist rolling in from Lake Honrich providing a drab and dismal atmosphere. The smell didn't help, what with the fishery, meadery and polluted canal that served as the dumping ground for what seemed to be every chamber pot and failed alchemy experiment in the city; creating some unholy mixture of rotten fish, mouldy hops and the hint of something utterly foul.

Its reputation as a hotbed of corruption and villainy did little to improve outsider opinion.

Fultheim meandered rather unsteadily down Riften's night-darkened streets, a bottle of Black-Briar Mead gripped firmly in his hand.

It was only a short distance from the Bee and Barb Inn to the bunkhouse he was staying in, but the considerable quantities of mead he had consumed seemed to want to take a rather scenic route.

Not that Fultheim minded as he sang quietly to himself; which, given the state he was in, meant that it was entirely possible that Hofgrir at the stables outside of the city could hear him.

"Chug a mug of mead and another mug of mead, warrior!"

"Don't mind if I do," He slurred, after his attempts at a tune trailed off with a chuckle, before bringing the bottle of mead to his lips; sighing as the fermented honey washed over his tongue.

The Fearless they called him and it was a name he revelled in. He was more than happy to regale his exploits to an enthralled audience, who were more than happy to show their appreciation with mead.

Why his latest caper was the stuff of bard tales everywhere: besieging a bandit camp heavily outnumbered with only a milk-drinker companion who broke at the first sight of combat, only to be cut down, leading Fultheim to avenge him by striking down the bandit chief with a mighty battle cry.

So what if he embellished a little; that the roles in his narrative were reversed, his cry more a squeak of terror and that the bandit practically ran onto his outstretched sword. It wasn't as though there was any one who could contradict him, given that the feckless sod of a mercenary he had hired now lay dead where Fultheim had abandoned him.

Fultheim continued merrily on his way, only to pitch forward and land face first on the ground.

After ensuring that none of the remaining mead had been lost, he stumbled to his feet as he reached for his sword; ready to challenge the interloper that dared to try and spill his mead.

Only to realise that he had left his sword in the bunkhouse and that there was no-one there.

Blinking slowly, Fultheim spun around; swaying when his surrounding refused to stop moving when he did.

There was no-one around because he seemed to have somehow wandered into Riften's graveyard.

Staring down at the ground he eventually saw who the culprit was: a protruding tree root.

Make that two protruding tree roots.

Chuckling to himself, Fultheim raised the mead bottle to his lips once more.

Only to stop when a chilling breeze cut through the graveyard, causing a shiver to run down his spine; quickly dispelling the warm, mead induced fog in his brain.

Was that a twig snapping?

That was definitely a twig snapping.

For a split second he was back in that shack, his wrists itching under the coarse rope.

"Who's there?" He cried, wincing when his voice cracked.

Quickly he guzzled down the remaining mead, seeking to gain some courage from the sweet honey nectar.

The bottle fell from his hand with a grunt, mead spilling down his front, as a sharp pain pierced his back.

His scream was covered by a leather encased hand as darkness took him.

* * *

While it was a frequent occurrence in her long life, waiting never sat well with Babette.

She was a vampire, an apex predator, top of the food chain; her blood sang for the chase, the fear that radiated from the hunted, outsmarting your prey through guile and dexterity. It was what separated her kind from the brute savagery and bestial rampages of the man-beasts of Hircine.

Patience was a virtue, especially for a master alchemist with nigh on three hundred years of experience, but to skulk around in the shadows, watching a drunken Nord stumble around in the dark, was really starting to grate on her nerves; even if it was to satisfy a curiosity.

She had noticed the pattern over the last month. Two murders, each in the opposite end of the country, each one stabbed in the back then slashed across the throat with a very sharp blade and a single nightshade cutting in their hand. Ordinary the rumour mill would have alerted the Holds' guards of the signature connecting a harridan in Dawnstar and a womanizing Khajiit in Solitude, but the current petty disagreement between the Old Holds and the Imperial Provinces meant that any thought of cooperation was a flight of fantasy; not that any investigation would have gotten anywhere considering the only connection was their deaths.

Unless, of course, you had a hand in deciding which potential victims to use for a little initiation; in fact it was Babette who had suggested the Quintus crone out of the selection Astrid had compiled, reasoning that her comparison to Grelod should provoke a rather interesting reaction, if nothing else.

Babette felt a slight ache in her heart at the thought of her now deceased dark family. While three hundred years conditions a certain resilience to loss, the breaking of any bond was bound to leave a scratch on any armour.

The snapping of a twig forced her from her musing; a silent curse on her lips for allowing herself to be distracted.

As the Nord whirled around, looking for the source of the noise, Babette's enhanced sight caught a movement in the shadows behind him.

_At least he has a sense of theatre_, Babette mused as the cloaked figure's arm snake around the Nord's head to cover his mouth as he thrust a dagger into the Nord's back before bringing it across his throat.

She rose from her spot behind the statue of Talos, smoothed down her black skirt and approached the assassin as he lowered the Nord's body to the ground and placed a sprig of nightshade in his hand.

"Good kill," She remarked, smirking as he whipped round raising his dagger; the smirk faltering when she saw it was Astrid's Blade of Woe.

As she subtly shifting into a defensive stance, Babette was slightly impressed that he didn't relax his guard when he saw she had the form of a child.

"You have a name?" She asked, raising an eyebrow when she noticed the armour was of a Brotherhood design she hadn't seen in about two hundred years.

The assassin seemed to be contemplating his options.

"Corbin," His voice was rough, as though he hadn't spoken in a while, "Nightshade."

"Fitting," Babette remarked, eyes flicking to the brooch fastening on his cloak.

"I thought so," His dark eyes seemed to bore into her own, "You've been following me."

"Obviously."

"For two days. Why?"

Babette blinked, while she had actually be stalking the Nord, she was sure she had covered her tracks perfectly; either she had been sloppy or this guy was quite observant.

"Why do you have Astrid's dagger?"

Corbin's gaze flicked to the outstretched dagger and back again.

"Was that her name? She never introduced herself," He shrugged with a single shoulder, "She gave it me to make my kill."

Corbin's foot kicked back, his heel striking the Nord's head.

"A life for a life. I had a debt to repay."

Babette slowly relaxed her stance at the echoing of Astrid's words.

"We share the same profession then."

Corbin lowered the Blade, but didn't sheathe it.

"You are of the Dark Brotherhood."

When Babette nodded Corbin sheathed the Blade, "And the reason for this audience?"

Babette glanced towards the main city, her enhanced hearing picking up the patrols of the guards.

"Maybe it would be best if we were more private."

Corbin nodded and gestured for Babette to lead the way. With a wary glance at the Bosmer, she led him down the path than ran alongside the city wall and down a side alleyway between two houses.

Nestled in the shadows between the stone walls she turned to him.

"I'm intrigued; you're not treating me like a child," She said before she could stop herself; there were sometimes when having an alchemist's curiosity was infuriating.

"You don't act like one, why should I treat you like one?" He shrugged, "Beside the fangs give it away."

Babette blinked; she hadn't been able to feed during the two days of her hunt causing the traits of her vampire side to begin to show.

"Must don't notice," She remarked.

"Must don't pay attention."

Babette nodded to herself, certain of her decision.

"I'm here to offer you entrance to the Dark Brotherhood."

"Astrid..."

"Astrid," Babette interrupted, "Wanted to see if you could kill on command. Now I want to see if you can kill undetected; consider it your first contract if you wish."

Corbin nodded in acceptance.

"Before our," She paused, "Current circumstance, we had a contract that is now overdue. In Whiterun there is a Wood Elf, a meat seller named Anoriath. It should be fairly simple affair; however there may be a slight complication."

Corbin gestured for her to continue.

"I'm sure you are aware of the dispute currently circulating Skyrim?"

"I wouldn't call a civil war a dispute."

Babette rolled her eyes.

"I'm three hundred years old and experienced the Oblivion Crisis; it's a dispute."

Corbin nodded in acceptance of her view.

"Anyway, Whiterun is a now under Stormcloak control; it might be unstable," She gave he a broad smile, "Have fun."

Corbin rolled his eyes under his hood before turning towards the exit of the alley.

"One more thing," Babette called, "When you are done go to Dawnstar."

"There is nothing in Dawnstar."

"Exactly," Babette smirked, "In the rock face on the northern shore is a Black Door. And remember: the greatest illusion in life is Innocence, my brother."

Corbin looked at her, eyebrows furrowed, before disappearing into the night.

A shout came from the direction of the graveyard.

"And that," Babette said, "Is my cue to leave."

* * *

The sky over Whiterun was a rolling sea of dark grey, with angry clouds poised to unleash what threatened to by a downfall of colossal proportion.

Corbin walked up the glacis towards the city gates, his head bowed against the gale funnelled through the gate of the drawbridge.

In front of him was a cart loaded with crates being pulled by a Redguard.

As they approached the main gates the two Stormcloak guards moved to block the path.

"Hold it right there," One commanded, "State your name and the origin of your goods Redguard."

"Ennis; Cowflop Farm in Rorikstead."

The two guards exchanged a look.

"That's the farm run by that Thalmor Elf isn't it?"

"What?" Ennis cried, shock colouring his words, "Reldith isn't a Thalmor."

"Still an Elf," The guard motioned to his companion, "Vidrald, check to see there isn't any contraband."

"Sure thing Engar," Vidrald said with obvious glee.

"I don't have any contraband," Ennis protested as Vildrald made his way to the rear of the cart.

"Hmph, as if we'll just take your word for it," Engar retorted.

"Hey Engar, take a look at this."

Inside the crate Vildrald had opened were several bottles.

"That is the excess mead from the Frostfruit Inn."

"Funny," Engar sneered, "I thought you said your goods were from Cowflop Farm."

"They...they are," Ennis stuttered, "I'm just delivering on Mralki's behalf."

"So you've paid the required taxes then?"

Ennis blinked, "There isn't a tax."

"Oh, there isn't a tax," Vildrad parroted, "Do you make the law now Redguard?"

"I didn't..."

"We'll be confiscating those then," Engar declared, "If you had paid the required tax you would have produced your documents stating so; the fact you didn't means you in fact haven't paid the tax."

"You can't be..." Ennis whispered.

"Can't we?" Vildrald interrupted with a tone that held an ominous edge, which caused Ennis flinched.

"I do hope your aren't questioning the authority of the Stormcloaks Redguard," Engar tone was equally dark, "I think a more thorough inspection is needed, wouldn't you agree Vildrald?"

"I most certainly do Engar; can't be too careful given the war. For all we know this Redguard might be trying to smuggle in weapons for dissidents inside the city."

As he said that, Vildrad grabbed a crate from the cart and threw it to the ground. The wood shattered and it contents of potatoes rolled down the slope; Ennis' stunned gaze following them.

Engar turn and noticed his audience.

"You there," He cried, pointing at Corbin.

Corbin approached; he kept his eyes down, making a show of fighting the wind over the hold of his hood.

"Yes sir?"

Engar paused for a moment before, "Move along. There's is nothing to see here."

Corbin bowed before slipping into the city.

He moved down the main street towards the marketplace, stopping when he heard the word 'Dragonborn'.

Glancing around Corbin spotted two guards in conversation by the blacksmith, so moved in their direction; pretending to browse the weapon rack by the shop's door.

"You should have seen it, Geirlund: the Dragonborn flew straight out of Dragonsreach on the back of a great red dragon, dressed in armour made from their bones and his axe, by Talos, it looked like it could cut through a god."

"If he's gone to confront Alduin, he'll probably need it to."

"True. Word is he's gone to Sovngarde itself."

"Let's hope he doesn't stay there; there's still a war going on and we'll probably need him if we are to defeat the Legion."

"Best not let Hjornskar hear you say that. There is a reason he is called Head-Smasher."

Corbin scowled beneath his hood as the two guardsmen wondered off. It had taken him far too long to learn of the Dragonborn's frequent commutes between Windhelm and Whiterun. He had hope to find him here and stick the Blade of Woe in his throat, but to discover that his quarry wasn't in the city, let alone the same plane of existence, was infuriating; why was it every time he made a step forward on his quest for vengeance he was forced to fall two steps back?

The blacksmith, an Imperial woman, approached him; a warm smile on her face, although the lines around her eyes were testimony to a few sleepless nights.

"Got some good pieces here," She said, "There are more inside if you don't see what you want."

Corbin forced his attention onto the array of weapons. Quickly scanning the rack, he spotted several iron daggers. He picked one up, given a few practice swings. It was obviously forged with melee use in mind, which meant that the weight distribution meant it wasn't a suitable replacement for his throwing knives.

He replaced the dagger on the rack and shook his head at the blacksmith.

"Do come again," She said, smile faltering somewhat as he moved away towards the market.

While the marketplace was bustling with activity, there seemed to be a quiet tension in the air; the stall tenders hawking their wares lacked enthusiasm and the market goers were shuffling to and fro, heads bowed and eyes darting.

Corbin approached the meat stall, frowning when he saw that its tender was not a Bosmeri male but a Nord woman.

"Good afternoon," He greeted as he removed his hood, revealing his race.

"Hello, see anything you like?" She asked, gesturing at the rather small selection of meat and a couple of potions in deep purple bottles.

"Actually, I'm looking for my cousin Anoriath. Have you seen him?"

The woman's eyes narrowed slightly.

"I didn't know he had a cousin."

"It's complicated," Corbin sighed, "Various intertwining of several tribes. Cousin is the simplest explanation."

"Elrindir hasn't mentioned any other family."

"We don't along, hence why I'm looking for Anoriath."

"Oh, that explains why you haven't heard then."

"Heard what?" Corbin said as his hand clenched under his cloak.

_Sweet Oblivion, this is like striking at a glacial facade; get to the bleeding point._

"The new Jarl had him arrested for poaching several days ago," She said with a sympathetic smile, "He's in the Dragonsreach Dungeon. You can try and see him but the guards are not very friendly to," she paused slightly, "strangers."

"I can only try. Thank you for your time."

* * *

Night descended fairly swiftly on Whiterun as Corbin approached the door to the guards' barracks.

He placed an ear to the door and, upon hearing no movement, pushed it open and slipped inside.

The mess hall he entered into was empty, save for several empty mead bottles on the tables.

As Corbin crossed the room into a short corridor, he heard footsteps coming from behind the closed door in front of him.

As it opened he quickly darted into the storage room on the right, pressing against the dividing wall; holding his breath as the guard passed.

Peering around the doorway, Corbin watched as the guard sat down at one of the tables, back to the corridor and began drinking from a bottle of mead.

With the coast clear, Corbin darted across the hall into the room opposite. He crouched next to a trapdoor and, mindful of its rusting hinges, opened it slowly and slipped inside.

The sewers under Whiterun, while not as extensive as the ones in, say, Riften, were still spacious enough for a man to stand; after all the city's waste had to go somewhere.

It wasn't enough to compensate for the smell.

Corbin placed the hem of his cloak against his masked face and ventured through the slick tunnels; trying very hard not to even think about what could be coating the walls or the contents of the puddles.

He scoured the tunnels until he heard what sounded to be snoring coming through a grate. Examining it, Corbin noticed that it was hinged; the masonry housing the lock was crumbling.

A swift yank was all that was needed to pull it open.

Using the grate as a ladder, Corbin pulled himself up and into a cell.

* * *

Anoriath wasn't sure what had woken him.

In fact he wasn't sure of much lately; time seemed to hold different rules in the dungeons of Dragonsreach.

How long ago was it since he had been hauled before Jarl Gray-Mane, accused of poaching?

Jarl Balgruuf had been accommodating to his hunting, providing the appropriate tariffs had been given before the meat went to market. But, with his death during the Battle of Whiterun, Anoriath had been thoughtless to believe that his agreement would be honoured by the new Jarl; hindsight always made fools of even the wisest of individuals.

He had been tried in moments, sentenced to be whipped and thrown into the dungeons until the Jarl was satisfied; which, given the Stormcloaks record of how they treated Elves, probably meant that Anoriath was destined to spend the rest of his days sustained by tasteless gruel and tepid water in a freezing cell.

As his sleep dulled senses began to clear, Anoriath's heart all but stopped in his chest.

He wasn't alone.

Bolting from his cell bed, Anoriath pushed past the shadowy figure, knocking some sort of flower from his hand, and reached for the cell door; his mouth opened to shout for the guards.

He wasn't sure what tripped him. It might have been the intruder or himself, stepping on what would have been his dinner; which had been pushed through the bars.

With a sickening crash, Anoriath's face slammed into the metal bars of the cell doors; his vision exploding with a burst of light.

"Quiet down there, Elf!" A guard shouted from down the hall.

As Anoriath tried to shake away the disorienting impact, a hand clamped over his mouth.

Pain radiated from his back as a blade was plunged into it; his killer violently twisting as he pulled it out.

A quick slash across the throat silenced the Wood Elf hunter forever.

* * *

Nestled in a frozen cliff face north of Dawnstar was a sinister door, fashioned from black metal; emanating an aura of chilling malice that fuelled many rumours and nightmares among the populace.

As Corbin approached the door, a skull marked with a bloodstained handprint, emerged into existence; it faintly glowed as a ghostly voice resonated in his mind.

_What is the music of life?_

Corbin frowned.

While cryptic, he was certain that the child vampire's words were reference to the passphrase; but there was no mention of illusions, life or innocence here.

On the edge of his mind the presence that appeared to be guiding him whispered just beyond his comprehension; vanishing as he tried to focus.

Realisation dawned.

"Silence, my brother."

_Welcome home._

Corbin paused as the Black Door creaked open.

Home.

That was an interesting thought.


	4. Shattered Silence

**Silence Falls When Darkness Dies**

_Polytheist_

Disclaimer: all copyrighted material belongs to their respective owners

_Sweet Mother, Sweet Mother send your child unto me,  
For the sins of the unworthy must be baptised in blood and fear._

**Shattered Silence**

Babette exhaled as she transferred the bowl of crushed deathbells from the bench worktop to the tripod; tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear. She added a little water and adjusted the flame so the mixture would simmer.

Selecting a more durable mortar, Babette filled it with elk doe antlers and began to grind them down.

The methodical procedures of the alchemical process were relaxing; they focused her mind, keeping her thoughts away from dark events and irritating jesters.

Once the antlers were coarsely grounded Babette reached for the portion of bonemeal, her hand clenching when maniacal laughter echoed off the walls. Shaking away her frustration, she sifted the bonemeal through a wicker lattice and began to grind the mixed powders.

Satisfied that the powders were fine enough, Babette removed the deathbells from the heat and stirred the decoction into the grains; adding water until it had a syrup-like consistency.

After transferring it into a bottle, Babette gathered up her equipment and placed them into the basin; removing a piece of slate from the wall, allowing a stream of ice cold water to pour from the spout.

As she scrubbed at her apparatus, Babette spared a mournful thought for her setup of the Falkreath Sanctuary; those were of grandmaster quality, not like these cracked, pale imitations.

She sighed as she began to scrub down the piece of driftwood that served as her worktable. It was bad form for an alchemist to blame her tools, especially when the poison she had just brewed could be made with a rock and flowing stream.

Babette smiled at that memory; those bandits never knew what hit them.

Discarding the wash cloth and rinsing her hands under the freezing water, she replaced the slate dam, idly noting to look into installing a spigot, and set about storing away her equipment to dry.

The sound of the Black Door opening echoed around the Sanctuary.

"Finally," Babette muttered, wiping her hands on a cloth before making her way to the entrance; smoothing down her Brotherhood Robes as she went.

Corbin was standing just inside the entrance, shaking snow from his cloak.

"The victorious assassin returns."

Corbin raised an eyebrow in response.

"A Wood Elf committing suicide in Whiterun's dungeon tends to get around," Babette smirked, as the second eyebrow rose, "It seems the Stormcloak authorities don't want it known that the assassin organisation they declared destroyed might not be as dead as they said, or some other political nonsense."

Babette turned around and walked down the entrance way to the vestibule; gesturing for Corbin to following.

"Welcome to the family," She gestured around; mindful of the dust and cobwebs littering the corners, "It's not much, but at least it's better than the ash-pit that used to be our Falkreath Sanctuary."

"So, do I get to know you name?"

"Babette."

Corbin's eyes flicked over her form.

"Fitting."

Babette's scowl faded into a sigh as laughter echoed around the Sanctuary; eliciting another raised eyebrow from Corbin.

"That's Cicero, our Mother's Keeper; he's a little eccentric."

"Mother?"

"The Night Mother is the Unholy Matron, the leader of the Brotherhood," Babette led Corbin through the doorway and turned right, "It is through her we usually get our contracts."

On a pedestal in the alcove stood a large cylindrical coffin cast from aged iron, a skeletal motif carved onto its surface.

In front of the coffin was a strange Imperial man, dressed in jester raiment, muttering something about dancing and a void; he was puttering around the pedestal, lighting candles and arranging bundles of flowers at the coffin's feet.

"Cicero."

Cicero looked up.

"Yes un-child," His smile widened as he noticed Corbin, "Oh a new friend, Cicero loves new friends; especially when they become good friends."

"This is Corbin Nightshade; he is our new Brother."

Cicero clapped his hands before stopping; his head tilted to one side, like a bird examining a shiny trinket.

"Is he broken?"

Babette turned to face Corbin. His eyes were locked, unblinking, on the coffin. Not being tall enough to wave her hands in front of his face, Babette contemplated stepping on his foot to grab his attention.

"Darkness rises when silence dies," Corbin intoned, as though repeating the phrase.

"The words!" Cicero shouted gleefully, "The binding words. Our Lady is back. She has chosen her Listener."

Cicero began hopping around the area, before falling to his knees and grabbing at Corbin's cloak.

"All hail the Listener," He proclaimed.

"Is it true?" Babette asked, "Did she speak to you?"

Corbin turned to face her, idly brushing Cicero's hands off his clothing.

"Someone did," He said, before turning back to stare at the coffin, "She wants both to leave the area; privacy."

Cicero hauled himself to his feet, dust from the floor staining the knees of his outfit.

"Of course," He twittered, "Cicero hears and obey the sweet Night Mother and the powerful Listener. Yes, Cicero obeys."

Then he took off, skipping deeper into the Sanctuary while whistling a tune about a bard and fire.

"I suppose I could check on my meagre garden," Babette shrugged, as Corbin's hand reached for the Night Mother's coffin.

"Ok then," She sighed, turning away and moving towards her alchemy alcove.

* * *

The iron coffin was cold beneath his glove; the chill seeping through the leather and into his skin.

Beneath his palm the lock rattled and turned on its own accord; the hinges squeaking as the doors to the coffin swung open.

The Night Mother's corpse hung proudly in the centre of the tendril pattern etched on the inside of the coffin; secured by rope to the metal.

Corbin balked slightly, his mind flashing back to his haunting visions of Grelod's corpse, before something compelled him to kneel.

"It's you," He muttered, "The whispers, the presence in my head, guiding my footsteps for as long as I can remember."

–_As every parent should guide their child,_ the ghostly voice whispered, _I have provided for you the tools for you to reach your potential._

"What do you require of me, Mother?"

–_Too long have many cried for their mother. Too long has my family languished in darkness. The silence will be broken. Blood with flow once again._

Corbin smiled beneath his mask, as thoughts of the Dragonborn swirled in his mind; now was the time for his vengeance.

–_In the City of Stone a child has cried into the darkness. Go to Markarth, speak to Muiri the Breton and begin the contract, bound in sacrament. Hail Sithis._

"But," He trailed off as a pressure formed in the back of his head, "I will do as you command, Mother."

* * *

Muiri paused at the top of the stairs overlooking the smelting area of Cidhna Mine; the breeze carrying the moisture of the stream and the metallic taste of the silver, all accompanied by the roar of the waterfall and the steady banging of the nearby blacksmith's forge. She tilted her head back, allowing the morning sun to warm her face; savouring the respite from the dull, cloudy weather induced by the surrounding mountains.

"Muiri?"

Muiri let out a small scream as she whirled around at the sound of her name.

"Gods," She gasped; hand over her heart, willing it to stop thundering in her chest, "You startled me."

Her eyes widened when she saw who had called to her.

Sitting on the outcrop of the juniper tree was a man, hooded and cloaked, dressed in black and red armour; a silver brooch in the shape of a nightshade flower securing the cloak over his breast bone.

Muiri flinched back a step when he slipped off his perch and stared at her with unblinking dark eyes; the lower portion of his face covered by a mask.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Muiri suppressed a winch at how feeble her voice sounded.

"You called."

"Called, but I," Her eyes widened as realisation dawn, "The sacrament," Muiri quickly glanced around; despite no guards in the vicinity she lowered her voice, "You're with the Dark Brotherhood?"

The assassin nodded.

Muiri smiled widely, before frowning.

"Listening, I know you're probably very busy and all, but," She swallowed before continuing; her words almost falling over themselves in her rushed speech, "Would it be possible to do this later. Bothela is expecting me and this is a rather sensitive matter; not something to be discussed in the street. If it is okay with you, could with meet later?"

Muiri felt her breath catch in her throat as the assassin stared at her; sweat, cold despite the sun, ran down the back her neck as she realised she might have pushed her luck. After all assassin weren't known to be the most tolerant of individuals.

What seemed like minutes passed before the assassin slowing nodded his head.

Muiri exhaled.

"Thank you," She said, barely disguising the gratitude in her voice, "I finish at seven. Could you meet me in the Silver-Blood Inn?"

Another nod.

"Is everything alright?"

Muiri once again whirled around at the sound of another voice, heart attempting to escape her chest; her wide eyes meeting the dark slits of a guard's helmet.

"I didn't mean to startle you," The guard said.

"It's alright," Muiri responded, "I was just," Her eyes flicked to where the assassin stood, only to find that he was gone, "I was just enjoying the breeze before going to work."

"You're an alchemist right?" The guard chuckle when Muiri nodded, "Don't suppose you could brew me an ale?"

Muiri forced herself to laugh at the tiresome joke.

"Sorry," She said, fixing a smile on her face, "I don't think the Silver-Bloods would like it if I muscled in on their business."

"Hmph, move along then," His demeanour changing as he brushed past her and continued on his round.

Muiri sighed.

_Why couldn't the men in this city just leave her alone?_

* * *

As night descended on Markarth, Corbin strode through the doors of the Silver-Blood Inn.

With his armour exchanged for a black tunic and his dark hair falling straight to his shoulders, he looked every bit the noble his father claimed they were when the wine loosened his tongue.

As he strode through the inn Corbin briefly wondered why he was being so accommodating. He dismissed his concern as he made his way to Muiri's corner table, after all the Breton had made a valid argument; it wasn't wise to discuss such business so candidly.

Muiri jumped slightly in her seat when he sat down, apparently shaken from her thoughts.

"You came," She said, "I was afraid..."

She trailed off, shaking her head and leaving the thought unfinished.

"Mead?" Corbin asked.

Muiri blinked at the non sequitur.

Corbin sighed.

"We are discussing business in a tavern. It is customary to drink is it not?"

"Oh right," She stuttered, "No, er I mean yes, you're right. Sorry." She shook her head, "I can't stand mead; it's more Bothela's thing."

Corbin nodded and signalled to a young Nord who was cleaning tables. He had to give the young man credit when he correctly decoded his gestures and brought over a bottle of Alto wine and two goblets; surmising that the regular clientele were not big on vocabulary.

Muiri left her goblet untouched as Corbin took a sip of his own.

"So," She swallowed, "Do I get to know your name?"

"Corbin Nightshade," He frowned; why did just reveal his full name to her?

"Oh, I guess that explains the brooch," Her eyes widened when she noticed his expression, "Sorry, I'm an alchemist; I recongnised the flower."

"Like my sister."

Corbin lowered his goblet onto the table, pushing it away.

It had only taken a sip, surely that wasn't enough to affect him? No, it was watered down skeever piss; he was probably more likely to get drunker on a bunch of Jazberry grapes. Then why was he so forthcoming? His first thought was that the wine had been tampered with, only to dismiss that concern when Muiri raised her goblet to her lips; they had come from the same bottle and surely she wouldn't risk being poisoned by her own plot.

In the back of his mind, something akin to a knowing chuckle echoed just beyond his senses.

"A sister?"

Corbin narrowed his eyes slightly as he tried to decipher her tone. There was no deception in it; it seemed she was genuinely curious.

He suppressed a sigh; it was too late to take back his words, so he might as well spin a suitable cover based on the scant details he observed from his new family.

"Yes, Babette; she would be," He paused; a show of mental calculation. While the child vampire had the body of a ten year old, her being an alchemist wouldn't explain her maturity, "Thirteen. She is rather small for her age, so she turned to alchemy; turns out she has quite the knack for it."

"The world could always do with more alchemists. Babette is a Breton name isn't it?"

"Half-sister, not that it matters."

Muiri eyes widened slightly, "Sorry, I didn't mean...it's just not many would raise a sibling by themselves."

"We aren't," Corbin said before he could stop himself, "Our Uncle helps when he can. Unfortunately he didn't take the death of our Grandmother very well; left him a little unstable."

Under the table Corbin clenched his fist; this was getting ridiculous, rapport was one thing but here he was fabricating an entire family tree. He needed to get to his reason for being here.

"Enough," He said, rather sharply; as Muiri opened her mouth, no doubt to offer futher condolences, "We should discuss the business at hand."

Muiri lowered her eyes to her goblet.

"You right."

She opened her mouth to start, and then promptly closed it. She reached for her goblet and drained it in one gulp before refilling it and draining it again.

She took a deep breath and began to speak.

"Alain Dufont," She spat, "I want that dog dead."

She took another breath.

"He is the leader of a group of bandits that operate out of the Dwarven ruin Raldbthar near Windhelm; only I didn't know that when we were together."

Corbin froze; his goblet half-way to his lips.

"He used me to get to the Shatter-Shields in Windhelm and steal their ancestral warhammer," She let out a bitter laugh, "I thought he loved me, but I was a fool."

The metal of Corbin's goblet strained under his fingers as his grip tightened. With considerable effort he lowered the goblet to the table and prised his fingers from the abused metal.

"He will die," He all but snarled; blinking at the strength of his reaction when his voice reached his ears.

Muiri nodded, "That is what the contract is for, but if you can...I want someone else killed as well."

Corbin nodded for her to continue.

"I was like a daughter to the Shatter-Shields, a sister to Nilsine and Friga. When Dufont used my grief over Friga's death to steal from them, they refused to believe my innocence; Tova lead the attack on me, treated me like garbage and Nilsine refused to come to my defence. I want Nilsine dead, so that Tova knows the pain of what she has lost."

"Then they will pay."

"Thank you," She said with a small smile, "I planned to do it myself, even prepared some Lotus extract, but I lost my nerve," She produced two vials of dark green liquid, "Maybe you can use it?"

Corbin placed the vials in a pouch on his belt.

"I will return when I am done," He said as he rose to his feet, throwing a few coins onto the table.

"Thank you," Muiri said as she stood up with him, "I've saved up several weeks pay for when you return."

Corbin blinked; how had he forgotten about the pay?

He shook his head before grasping her hand.

"I will see you then Muiri," He promised, before turning around and walking out of the Silver-Blood Inn.

* * *

Nilsine Shatter-Shield knew that what she was doing was unhealthy, but still could not stop herself.

Every day was the same routine; she would awaken with a promise that today would be different, and then spend the morning perusing the market stalls as slowly as possible, idly talking to the merchants; all the while repeating her promise over and over in her mind.

But as the sun began its descent in the sky, her feet, on their own accord, would carry her to the rear of Valunstrad and stop just outside the gates of Hjerim; the home of her sister Friga, before her death.

Nilsine's hand moved to her wrist, where a silver bracelet was worn. Although studded with garnets, the chain was of simple make; a present from Friga before her murder.

She tried to focus on that day: the playful gleam in Friga's eyes when she handed over the bound cloth bundle, the warmth of her embrace and the lightness of her laughter; but the memories shifted: Friga's eyes became lifeless, her skin pale and cold, and the laughter morphed into howls of grief.

Nilsine shook her head, desperate to escape the vision of her sister's body; mutilated on the ground.

The shadows of Valunstrad lengthened with the sun's passing, causing Nilsine to shiver in the sudden chill.

She sighed as she turned away from Hjerim; she needed to talk with Helgird, the priestess always had words of comfort that chased away the dark thoughts.

She was startled, however, when a figure blocked her path.

"I'm sorry," She said, "I didn't see you there."

When the man didn't response Nilsine began to feel uneasy; noting the distinct lack of people in the area.

She was about to ask that he move out of her way when she felt something be pressed into her hand.

A single bloom of nightshade; the symbolic flower of death.

"Is this some kind of sick joke?" She cried.

Suddenly her world was spinning as she was spun on her feet; the man's hand covering her mouth.

Before Nilsine could even think about fighting against the grip that held her tight, a dagger was plunged into her back; her screams muffled by a leather gauntlet.

As she fell, throat slashed, her hand clenched around the nightshade.

* * *

The still air was bitterly cold around Raldbthar as Corbin slowly inched his way along the icy, metal roof of the ruin's entranceway; mindful of his precarious footing.

It would've been folly to approached the Dwemer ruin from the, most likely watched, path, so he had elected to travel over the mountain and come at it from above; which had proved prudent as, from his perch, Corbin could make out three bandits huddled around a campfire.

One was an Orc attired in iron armour padded with thick furs against the biting wind; banded armour, favoured by mercenaries and bandits alike. A large warhammer, resting within arm's reach, was testament to the warrior's strength.

The others were human, a Nord and Breton judging from the accents on the wind, and were not so heavily armoured; full bodied suits of hide and fur to stave off the chill. By the Nord's feet was a bow and quiver, identifying him as a scout, while no visible weapon near the Breton suggested him to be a mage.

Carefully Corbin extracted three arrows from his quiver; two of Forsworn make for the lightly armoured men and one of ebony to pierce through the thicker iron.

He placed the ebony arrow in a groove between two tiles on the floor in front of him, so that it wouldn't roll away while still being in easy reach; he notched a Forsworn arrow while palming the other.

His sight was focused on the assumed mage, judging the shot by the way the wind gathered the Breton's hair. He held his breath as the light of the flames danced in the Breton's eyes and, on the exhale, loosed the arrow.

It pierced through the Breton's armour, straight through the centre mass of his chest.

It takes several moments to respond to a sudden, lethal change in environment.

More than enough time to notch the second Forsworn arrow, shift aim and strike the Nord scout in the throat as he moved to gather his weapon.

By now the Orc warrior had leapt to his feet; grabbing his warhammer as he stood. He whirled around, facing the direction the arrows came from; bellowing when he spotted Corbin crouched on top of the entrance to the ruin.

His posturing gave the Bosmer enough time to scoop up the ebony arrow, notch it and draw the bowstring.

As the Orc charged towards his position the ebony arrow flew from the Black Dwarven bow and struck him through the heart.

With a satisfied nod Corbin slipped from his perch, crouching to lessen the impact of his descent and moved over to the Orc's body.

The ebony arrow was a lost cause; the momentum of the Orc's charge had caused him to pitch forward when he died, resulting in the arrow being crushed beneath his dead weight.

With a sigh Corbin turned towards the entrance of Raldbthar and silently entered the ruin.

* * *

Alain Dufont hid his sneer behind his goblet as two of his associates grunting on about gods know what.

He was a sophisticated man; one of High Rock's elite, destined to sample the finest wines in the finest of locales, such as the Blue Palace or the Synod's Symposium.

But no, because of some lovesick slip of a girl, he was here; in some forsaken Dwemer ruin he couldn't pronounce, drinking some grog swill while listening to two pig-faced Orcs grunt at each other about whatever in Oblivion spikeball was.

Alain sighed as his eyes fell on Aegisbane as it lay on the table in front of him. It was a good haul, even if the egotistical motif of the Shatter-Shield clan that adorned the warhammer's head made it quite recognisable in Skyrim; he would have to get it across a border, once the heat had died down.

His thoughts turned back to his latest caper as a smile graced his feature at the memories.

It had been so easy, but then those in mourning always were; too cloudy with grief to even think for themselves. A little nod here, a sympathetic whisper there and anyone was a puppet in his hands.

Alain frowned; what was that girl's name again? It was something common to fit the Breton dreg looking to improve her station.

Moira? Muriel? Bah! Who cares?

It wasn't as though she was memorable anyway; was hardly worth the effort to get it up in the sack.

Alain drained his goblet as his thoughts turned to his next scheme.

He was too infamous in Skyrim now, he couldn't return to High Rock after that incident with Councilman Leland's daughter and Morrowind was nothing but a dustbowl; so that meant Cyrodiil.

Alain hummed as he traced the Shatter-Shield crest.

He could become the illegitimate son of a Companion; Imperial women loved the idea of taming a savage barbarian. But he quickly dismissed the idea; that would require him to act below his station, which was inconceivable.

Then the idea struck.

The scion of a Nord Thane and High Rock nobility escaping an arranged marriage to an awful harpy of a crone; it explained the warhammer and gave a nice sob story to tug at the heartstrings of the romantic fools.

In short, it was perfect.

Alain smiled; there were times when he even amazed himself.

And that was when the table exploded in a shower of wood and metal.

Blinking away his blurred vision Alain quickly took stock of his situation.

Pain radiated from his legs and right arm. His associates lay unmoving beneath the debris of splinters, tableware and...Dwemer bolts?

Rolling onto his back, Alain turned his gaze to where two ancient Dwemer Ballistae stood, watching from their perch on the upper level; his eyes widening when a black cloak figure leapt from the landing.

As the figure approached, Alain rolled over and began to crawl and claw his way to where Aegisbane had fallen; every movement caused bursts of pain from his injured limbs.

With each pain filled pant, the closer he crawled to the stolen weapon; his finger scraping the cold iron head of the warhammer.

Suddenly Alain was yanked to his feet, his shins crying out in protest and a scream of pain escaping his lips as a dagger was plunged into his back.

"Muiri sends her regards," His assassin whispered as his blade drew across Alain's neck.

As darkness took him Alain couldn't help but wonder:

_Who in Oblivion was Muiri?_

* * *

It was a pleasant, if slightly chilly day in Markarth as Muiri made her way to the Hag's Cure after delivering a potion to the Jarl's steward; idly wondering what concoction required such discretion.

Her thoughts were disturbed when she passed the pathway that led to the Hall of the Dead and the Dwemer ruins and found her path blocked by a Nord in studded armour.

"Yngvar," She greeted, "Pleasant day."

"Don't be coy with me Breton," Yngvar sneered, "Rent's due; the Silver-Bloods want their money."

Muiri frowned, "The rent's due on the first on the month; that's two weeks away."

"Calling me a liar Girl?" Yngvar took a step forward; forcing Muiri back, "Trying to cheat the Silver-Bloods of their coin?"

Muiri's eyes widened, "No, it's just," She swallowed, "Bothela usually deals..."

"I'm dealing with you," Yngvar cut her off. Suddenly he smirked; an unsettling leer in his eyes, "If you can't pay, then I'm sure we can come to some arrangement."

He grabbed roughly at her arm; only to jerk back, crying out in pain, as a crimson ribbon appear on his forearm.

Yngvar stumbled to the floor, a black mass upon him; a wicked looking dagger in the air, poised to strike.

* * *

Corbin watched as Muiri came near his viewing spot hidden by a decorative pillar that shielded the entrance to the Hall of the Dead from the main path.

He was about to call out to her when a Nord in studded armour approached her.

While he couldn't quite hear their conversation, Corbin didn't like the way her muscles began to tense with each word. And when the Nord roughly grabbed her arm, leer on his face, his vision flashed red.

Before he knew it, Corbin was already moving; the Blade of Woe in his hand, slashing at the arm of the Nord.

The man jerked backwards, the baleful enchantment causing his muscles to spasm as he tripped on a loose stone and fell to the floor.

Immediately Corbin was on top of him, Blade held high; ready to slam it down into the wretched Nord's throat.

"Don't," Muiri cried.

Corbin tilted his head to show he was listening.

"He's connected; if you kill him that will make things worse."

Corbin paused for a moment, contemplating her words, before bringing the Blade down.

It slammed between two slabs of stone; spraying dirt into the Nord's hair.

Corbin leaned in close to the Nord's ear.

"You will leave her alone," He whispered, "Anything that befalls her you will repay; every sting, every blow, every harsh word from a sharp tongue. And when you break and begged for death, then you will know suffering that will be legendary; even in the Quagmire of Vaemina."

He pulled back to stare, unblinking, into the man's eyes.

"Am I clear?"

An enthusiastic nod answered his question.

Corbin slowly rose to his feet. The moment his was able to the man scrambled to his feet and scurried off, like a skeever fleeing a sabrecat.

"You shouldn't have done that?"

Corbin turned to Muiri; head tilted in question.

"Yngvar works for the Silver-Bloods, they own everything, even the guards; that makes him untouchable," She sighed, "And if the war continues to go the way it is and the Stormcloaks take the Reach, it is men like him who will have absolute authority."

Corbin lowered his eyes to the floor, a strange emotion spreading through his chest; it was almost like...

He shook the thought away. He wasn't guilty; he could no longer feel remorse, his father had seen to that. And yet the thought of her suffering because of his impetuous actions...

"He won't bother you."

Something must have coloured his tone because Muiri's eyes widened slightly; her hands coming up in protest.

"It's not that I'm ungrateful, I am; thank you," She sighed again, "Sorry, I guess I'm not use to men doing something for me without an ulterior motive."

She seemed to gather her thoughts; steeling her expression into one of resolve.

"Speaking of which, I believe with had an agreement. What's the news? Is Alain...?" She trailed off; her resolve faltering as Corbin moved away to the recess he had been waiting in.

He picked up the cloth covered item, then revealed it to be an iron forge warhammer; an icon of a sundered shield on the head.

"Aegisbane," Muiri whispered," So he's dead?"

When Corbin nodded, Muiri threw herself at him; arms coming around his head in a tight hug. She moved so fast that Corbin was forced to quickly shift his stance to avoid them both tumbling to the ground; the warhammer was trapped between them, but Muiri didn't seem to mind.

She broke away, her face aglow with fervour.

"That bastard got exactly what he deserved," She spat, "But what about Nilsine?"

Corbin shifted Aegisbane into his left hand, resting its head on the floor; he reached in a pouch with his free hand and withdrew the broken bracelet that once adorned Nilsine Shatter-Shield's wrist.

This time he was ready for her assault and awkwardly returned her hug with his right arm.

At his touch Muiri stiffened slightly, and then broke away; a light blush on her cheeks.

"Sorry," She muttered, "I didn't really expect...Well, you've more than fulfilled your part of the bargain. Here."

From her pocket, Muiri produced a coin purse.

"As we agreed," She said; handing over the purse, "I want you to have something."

She removed a silver ring from her finger.

"I want you to have this as a token of my affection," She swallowed, "Erm, I mean as something to remember me by."

Muiri sighed and shook her head; a light blush forming on her cheeks.

"It belonged to my mother; she gave it to me when I started my alchemy apprenticeship," She smiled, "Maybe your sister would like it; it helps with alchemy."

Corbin swallowed, "I'm sure she will love it."

A brief silence descended before Muiri cleared her throat.

"Well, I'm sure you have other things to do," She gestured to Aegisbane, "Probably best if you keep that; you earned it after all."

Corbin nodded; recovering the warhammer and putting it under his arm.

"If you are ever in Markarth again..."

"I'll be sure to visit," Corbin finished.

Muiri blushed and nodded.

Corbin turned and walked away, before stopping. He turned back around, lowered his mask and nodded to Muiri with a small smile. She returned the gesture, adding a small wave.

With one final glance, Corbin disappeared over Markarth's walls.

* * *

Corbin knelt before the closed coffin of the Night Mother.

–_It is done; another soul screams in the Void. You have done well my child._

"Thank you Mother."

–_I know heart Child. Vengeance burns with each beat._

"Yes, the Dragonborn..."

–_The Dragonborn is beyond your reach and so shall he remain, as the Dread Father commands._

"What? But I..." His words were cut off with a cry of pain as a great pressure erupted in his mind.

–_Don't not question, only obey._

"Yes Mother," Corbin bit out through gritted teeth.

–_Fear not Child,_ the Night Mother soothed, _you will sake the revenge in your heart. The Penitus Oculatus of Dragon Bridge left my family in ashes. Send them screaming to Sithis in the Void._

"As you command, Mother."


End file.
